Winter begets spring, which spawns summer, that falls into autumn. And there it goes, round and round and round -- like a dog chasing its tail. That's what growing up on a farm is like -- the same thing over and over again. The cattle are hungry in the morning; they're hungry in the evening. The chickens lay eggs in the morning; the farmer's wife gathers them in the evening. Day in. Day out. The corn gets planted in the spring and harvested in the fall, year after year after year. I guess there are slight variations, like the summer of '68 when it hailed so violently we lost all the crops. They were battered to the wet ground as if gods had come down from the skies and performed a sadistic dance over the tasseling yellow corn and full heads of wheat. The crops were stomped into the ground a few short hours before they were to be harvested and shipped to starving children in China.
My father cried--not for the starving children--but for us. He didn't try to hide the tears like he did at Uncle Joe's funeral the year before. In his faded blue work shirt, his shoulders shook so much, I wondered if God hadn't reach down and given him a shaking. For what, I didn't know. Only after he had snot dripping from his big nose did I understand the impact of nature's wrath. A year's worth of work was battered away. The labor was done, but no paycheck was to come.
I have never seen my father cry like that before or since, not even when his father died. That proud German heritage doesn't allow us to mutter, "I love you," without a great deal of discomfort. Love came in other gestures--my beautiful Dancerina doll I got for Christmas in 1971 or getting my favorite dinner every May 28th, my birthday.
That German mentality carried over into our work life. Growing up on a farm, I learned things sooner than town kids. I made mud pies at two, helped butcher my pets at three, and was behind the steering wheel at four. People say kids adapt quickly. That's because they don't have a choice.
My first driving experience wasn't enjoyable. It could have been, but for a few problems. Firstly, I wasn't tall enough to see out the windshield. Secondly, I couldn't reach the gas, brake or clutch pedals. I didn't know what a clutch did. What plagued my thoughts more than anything was the potential I had for maiming and killing as I attempted to steer the unyielding steering wheel. It started out innocently.
"Tammy, come help me feed the cattle. I need to push hay to them from the back of the pick-up." Mom said over our noon-meal of fried chicken and mashed potatoes. "You just need to steer." Twenty minutes later, I'm in the driver's seat and she's in the bed of the pick-up truck, without a care in the world.
"Mommy, the cows aren't moving!" I screamed. "I'm going to run over them." I sobbed. Couldn't she see these cattle in my way?
"Keep driv'in," she yelled from the back of the old blue truck.
I gripped the steering wheel like it was my savior Jesus Christ. I was going to run over a dozen head of cattle; Jesus was nowhere to be seen. Floating cow heads were all I could see out the bug-smeared windshield. It hadn't rained all summer and the pasture I was driving in was ugly and brown. No prickly cactus apples to eat this year. They were all dead. Just like me and Mommy were going to be. After I hit the cows, the pick-up would roll over on its side and that would be the end. Never would I make it to kindergarten.
In between tears and snot, I tried to take control. "Move you stupid cows. Get BEHIND the pick-up. Mommy's feeding you," I yelled out the open, driver's side window. My voice went unheard as the hungry cattle stood in front of the pick-up and bawled for their hay.
I couldn't see Mommy in the back of the pick-up, but I could see her in my mind. Right before we left for the pasture, she put on a pair of muddy, black galoshes. It wasn't just old, caked-on winter mud, it was dried cow poop, too. They were my Daddy's so they were too big, but she didn't care. Her dusty blue jeans looked more white than blue. She had cooked fried chicken for dinner (noon meal) and wiped her flour-covered hands on her jeans, instead of washing them off, like I had to.
She had on an old olive-green, short-sleeved shirt. It used to be pretty when she wore it to town, but now it was covered with bunched up balls of fabric. There were so many little balls, it looked polka-dotted. On her shirt, just below her shoulder, she had about eight safety pins attached. She collected them, like some people collect pennies. Like pennies, safety pins are plentiful and useful. Earlier in the day, the zipper on her jeans went "pop." She took a pin off her shirt and used it to keep her pants closed. Mommy never wore gloves. It was kinda hard to tell the difference between her hands and Daddy's. Hers were a little smaller, but just as beaten up from farm work and butchering chickens.
After dinner, I watcher her put her hair up in those pink plastic curlers with the brushes inside them. Near the front, where her hair was shorter, the curlers were small black ones. I had taken the littlest pink curlers for my dolls and never told her. She wrapped a dark blue handkerchief around her head so the hay wouldn't get stuck between the curlers.
I knew she'd be getting mad because it was really hot outside and the sweat would be dripping onto her eyeglasses. She'd also be mad because of my crying. I wasn't hysterical if I could hear the pitchfork scrape against the bed of the truck every few seconds. That way I knew she was alive -- still dumping loose hay bales into the pasture for these awful cattle.
"1, 2, 3 . . .5," I counted the seconds out loud. " Mommy, are you still back there?" If I didn't hear the ringing of the pitchfork against the steel bed, I got scared. If something happened to her, I wouldn't know what to do. My feet were miles from the pedals on the floor, not that I knew which one to push anyway.
That thought didn't help my outlook. A bottomless fountain of tears welled up in my eyes, my snot dripped like thick, raw egg whites. I stuck my lower lip out and sucked my upper lip to keep from sobbing again. My sticky, sweet snot found its way to my mouth. As I tried to lick it away, I looked out the open truck window. A cow, staring at me, licked his snot too. His big head was so close I could have reached out and touched it. He was one of those black, white-faced cows. Black, with a white face. His nose was pink, like my kitten's, but his nostrils were so big, half his tongue disappeared as he searched for his snot to lick away.
"Mommy!!"
"What?!"
"How . . .how many more bales?" I counted the seconds again. "1, 2, 4, 5. No! Start over. 1, 2, 3 . . .If only Spencer were here." Oh, I was mad at my brother for going to school! I forced my eyes away from the top of the dashboard and the cows' heads. I looked to see how fast we were moving. The red stick was between 0 and 5. "Stay closer to 0, please," I begged. I loosened my white and purple fingers from the steering wheel and grabbed up higher on the wheel. Now I could sort of see the cows' necks, not just their floating heads. On no, something evil loomed in the background.
"Mommy!" I yelled out the window. "There's a hill in the pasture. What do I do?" If I couldn't press on the gas pedal, the truck would roll backwards, Mommy would fall out and I'd run over her.
I closed my eyes, but I kept my hands on the wheel. Mommy had said before we started, "Just drive straight." Okay, okay! I'll drive straight.
I had to take one hand off the wheel though. I was drowning in my own snot and tears. I loosened my grip and quick as a prairie dog, I wiped my face against my long-sleeved shirt. A line of snot connected my sleeve and face together.
I always dressed in long-sleeved shirts and pants. The shirt I had on was a hand-me-down from Spencer. Mommy said he grew so fast there was still lots of wear in his clothes. Susan, who was right in between Spencer and me, refused to wear them. The blue jeans were mine though. They had red and white plaid cuffs at the bottom.
All summer long my brother would wear only shorts. Mommy told me that once, when I was little, she put me, Spencer, and Susan out in the yard in a galvanized tub filled with cold water from the garden hose. We were naked. Spencer and Susan splashed around in the sun and got brown as a jar of iced tea. I sat there and turned as bright red as one of her tomatoes in the garden. Mommy said the next day I had enough liquid in all my blisters to water the flowers.
If Spencer were home today, he'd be driving this big pick-up truck. They said I'd go to school next year--if I lived that long.
Suddenly the pick-up shifted. I couldn't tell what happened, but it felt differently. I pulled myself to the very edge of the seat to get a better look out the windshield. That didn't work. Now I couldn't see anything, but the dials in front of me.
I scooted my butt back to where it had been. I listened to the cows mooing and the birds talking. I didn't hear the pitchfork. Mommy had fallen out. "MOMMY!!"
"I'm right here." She stuck her head in the driver's window. "Now get over. Or do you want to drive home?" She smiled as she said this.
"Mommy!" She opened the door while the pick-up still moved. I looked down at the red stick again. It was on 1. "Be careful," I warned her.
I was so happy. I laid my head down in her lap and cried some more. Her legs were busy shifting gears, pushing up and down on the pedals. I didn't care that my head bounced around like a basketball. We were both alive. Finally, her foot rested on the gas pedal. I could lay still. The smell of hay hung on her as if she'd tumbled around in it. It was a nice smell, even though it reminded me of cows. I rubbed my hand up and down her jeans, making designs from the flour that still clung to them. All at the same time, Mommy smelled like hay, fried chicken, and the Dippity-Doo gel that had sweated from her curled-up hair.
I sat up to make sure there were no more floating heads in front of the pick-up. "Mommy, I don't like cows."
"You'll get used to them," she told me, nodding her head. "You'll get used to a lot of things you don't like."
**"A Child's View of Life on the Farm" was previously published Winter 1997, in The Returning Woman Magazine, a publication of Hunter College, NYC. A friend suggested I post it here. I thought it would make a nice companion piece to "Slice of Life," posted January 2015. Thanks for the suggestion CA.
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Thursday, January 22, 2015
Slice of Life
Forty years ago, I wrangled my way into my father's secret life for a day. Well, that is how my 8 year-old mind perceived this one special memory.
What are those memories we hold dear? Family vacation? Camp? Birthday party?
Mine involves my dad. Most times, he was an enigma to me. But every now and then, I glimpsed a different man. That was the man I wanted for my father. I wanted the one who talked loudly with his friends; the one who told the jokes and everyone laughed. Not the one who yelled, swore, and intimidated.With us-his two daughters, two sons, and wife-he shouted and didn't tell jokes.
As a parent now, I realize my siblings and I produced stress in his life and his buddies helped alleviate it. I get that. My kids can be a pain in the ass, but they are also an endless source of joy. I'm not sure I was a source of joy for my dad the way my children are for me. Then again, it was a previous generation. Love was revealed differently.
I spied bits and pieces of my dad's alter ego sprinkled throughout my childhood. The first time was after a church service. Mom got caught up talking to the pastor, while Dad slipped by and went outside. I restlessly stayed by my mom's side. I wanted to be outside too in the May sunshine and grass. As she and I left the foyer of the church, I saw Dad. He was with a cluster of other men, about six of them. All their ties had been loosened from around their necks to varying lengths. Dad's face and hands were animated as he talked. Suddenly, all the men burst out laughing. As wives and children appeared, each man left the shrinking circle to shoulder their responsibilities once again.
Occasionally, my family got together with our neighbors for pinochle parties. The grown-ups played cards, while the kids fought and played downstairs. Despite the childish shouts, "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny right over," I could hear a man's boisterous laughter reaching my ears through the air vents. It was Dad's. Why couldn't I make him laugh like that?
Every Wednesday in our small town was a livestock sale at the sale barn. My dad went once or twice a month, depending on the weather and work. How I snuck into this bastion of maleness, I can only guess. I suspect Mom dropped Dad off while she went grocery shopping and warned him not to eat any pie at the sale barn cafe. She had apple and peach pie at home.
"Pie? I'm starving. Let me go with Daddy!" would have been my desperate response.
To most people, the smell of cow manure, cherry pie, and coffee seems peculiar, even off-putting, but to me that mixture of odors represents my young hand nestled into my dad's over-sized, calloused farm hand. The only lipstick in this place, was on the woman behind the luncheon counter who my dad briefly flirted with in an attempt to get out of paying 35 cents for his cup of coffee.
Inside the sale barn, I sat next to Dad on the wooden benches that enclosed a large pen that could hold a dozen cattle. We sat next to my favorite neighbor, Leland, who lived down the road a couple miles. "Guten tag, liebchen," he said to me and winked. They two men continued on with their German. My dad spoke only German until he started first grade at the local rural school in Kansas around 1933. Apparently, he managed to retain enough of it to converse with someone else who spoke it infrequently. To this day, I love hearing German spoken.
Their conversation was drowned out by a motherless, baby calf that was pushed into the empty arena. He bawled so loudly for her, the auctioneer had to have him pushed out before bidding could start. Next, a few head of cattle got herded into the well-worn, dirt-covered area. The auctioneer was busy calling and scanning the crowd for potential bidders. His assistant prodded the lumbering animals with a stick to display their girth. I understood more German than whatever words were reeling off the auctioneer's tongue. I looked over at my dad. More men had sat down and joined him and Leland. English replaced the German. I was glad Dad had changed into a clean pair of overalls.
I realize now the cattle sale was just an excuse for him to get away and be amongst his own kind--other hard working farmers, worried about corn, wheat, and cattle prices and the next blizzard. I hope my tagging along didn't ruin his afternoon.
Everything mesmerized me that day. The auctioneer with his unintelligible language, men relaxing, paying for pie, instead of eating their wives' pie that was most assuredly sitting on clean counters at home.
But nothing was as mysterious and wonderful as my father's personality on display for me for an entire afternoon.
What are those memories we hold dear? Family vacation? Camp? Birthday party?
Mine involves my dad. Most times, he was an enigma to me. But every now and then, I glimpsed a different man. That was the man I wanted for my father. I wanted the one who talked loudly with his friends; the one who told the jokes and everyone laughed. Not the one who yelled, swore, and intimidated.With us-his two daughters, two sons, and wife-he shouted and didn't tell jokes.
As a parent now, I realize my siblings and I produced stress in his life and his buddies helped alleviate it. I get that. My kids can be a pain in the ass, but they are also an endless source of joy. I'm not sure I was a source of joy for my dad the way my children are for me. Then again, it was a previous generation. Love was revealed differently.
I spied bits and pieces of my dad's alter ego sprinkled throughout my childhood. The first time was after a church service. Mom got caught up talking to the pastor, while Dad slipped by and went outside. I restlessly stayed by my mom's side. I wanted to be outside too in the May sunshine and grass. As she and I left the foyer of the church, I saw Dad. He was with a cluster of other men, about six of them. All their ties had been loosened from around their necks to varying lengths. Dad's face and hands were animated as he talked. Suddenly, all the men burst out laughing. As wives and children appeared, each man left the shrinking circle to shoulder their responsibilities once again.
Occasionally, my family got together with our neighbors for pinochle parties. The grown-ups played cards, while the kids fought and played downstairs. Despite the childish shouts, "Red Rover, Red Rover, send Danny right over," I could hear a man's boisterous laughter reaching my ears through the air vents. It was Dad's. Why couldn't I make him laugh like that?
Every Wednesday in our small town was a livestock sale at the sale barn. My dad went once or twice a month, depending on the weather and work. How I snuck into this bastion of maleness, I can only guess. I suspect Mom dropped Dad off while she went grocery shopping and warned him not to eat any pie at the sale barn cafe. She had apple and peach pie at home.
"Pie? I'm starving. Let me go with Daddy!" would have been my desperate response.
To most people, the smell of cow manure, cherry pie, and coffee seems peculiar, even off-putting, but to me that mixture of odors represents my young hand nestled into my dad's over-sized, calloused farm hand. The only lipstick in this place, was on the woman behind the luncheon counter who my dad briefly flirted with in an attempt to get out of paying 35 cents for his cup of coffee.
Inside the sale barn, I sat next to Dad on the wooden benches that enclosed a large pen that could hold a dozen cattle. We sat next to my favorite neighbor, Leland, who lived down the road a couple miles. "Guten tag, liebchen," he said to me and winked. They two men continued on with their German. My dad spoke only German until he started first grade at the local rural school in Kansas around 1933. Apparently, he managed to retain enough of it to converse with someone else who spoke it infrequently. To this day, I love hearing German spoken.
Their conversation was drowned out by a motherless, baby calf that was pushed into the empty arena. He bawled so loudly for her, the auctioneer had to have him pushed out before bidding could start. Next, a few head of cattle got herded into the well-worn, dirt-covered area. The auctioneer was busy calling and scanning the crowd for potential bidders. His assistant prodded the lumbering animals with a stick to display their girth. I understood more German than whatever words were reeling off the auctioneer's tongue. I looked over at my dad. More men had sat down and joined him and Leland. English replaced the German. I was glad Dad had changed into a clean pair of overalls.
I realize now the cattle sale was just an excuse for him to get away and be amongst his own kind--other hard working farmers, worried about corn, wheat, and cattle prices and the next blizzard. I hope my tagging along didn't ruin his afternoon.
Everything mesmerized me that day. The auctioneer with his unintelligible language, men relaxing, paying for pie, instead of eating their wives' pie that was most assuredly sitting on clean counters at home.
But nothing was as mysterious and wonderful as my father's personality on display for me for an entire afternoon.
Friday, December 5, 2014
Power of Prayer
The Power of Prayer. It works! April 26, 2010, I wrote a blog, " Spanx or Not To Spanx." It refers to a mixed martial arts class that was kicking my butt. Instead of quitting, I prayed for the whole class to implode. (Hey, I never professed to be a nice person.) Guess what? Three months later, the studio lost their lease. It took them two years to find another space. Recently, I ran into a former student and teacher. I took these sightings as a sign. I've joined again.
". . . Oh sheeeiiiitttt," are the words that come to my lips after five minutes into the class. Literally. Three hundred seconds elapse when regrets start to erupt from my pounding heart. Another 10 minutes crawl by and I'm on my 50th boxing combination. "Jab, jab, cross, hook to the ribs, hook to the head, roundhouse left, roundhouse right." I look pleadingly at my 70 pound leather punching dummy. "Please, punch me out," I whisper. I swear I hear him say, "Who's the dummy now, Bitch?"
"I know you're a little winded," bellows the instructor. "So lay down with your head an arms-length away from the medicine ball I positioned behind you." All I comprehend is, "lay down." The next instructions sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. "Blah, blah . . blah. Blah, 15 crunches, blah." My fellow captors respond. They are lifting this ten pound ball into the air, as they simultaneously bring their feet up toward the ball to meet high above the belly. After I do three of these torturous maneuvers, I steal a look at the instructor. She has transformed into Medusa. Her beautiful hair extensions have become serpents. The precious "Michael Strahan" gap between her teeth now appear wide enough to suck me through, like a cobra ingesting its prey. She appears preoccupied arranging the boxing gloves on the hooks, so I attempt to lessen my load. I shove the ball away with my remaining strength. It travels four inches.
"Tam-A-Lam-A-Ding-Dong, what are you doing?" Oh yeah, that was her nick name for me back in 2010.
"I thought I saw a spider. So I was killing it."
"By rolling the medicine ball over it? You can stay afterwards to wipe down all the balls. Put your balls away and grab a jump rope."
I eye the jump rope and the metal pipes above. This escape route seems a little severe, but still . . .
"Jump til I say stop."
I tentatively raise my hand to forestall the activity by a few seconds. "What if my heart stops before you say stop?"
"No need for a class clown. Let's jump."
Last time I checked Webster's, that word means "let us,"as in "let us all jump." Funny, though, she just stands there with her ridged abs and concrete biceps determining if we are sweating enough. On second thought, I don't want to witness her jumping. I jump quickly. I jump slowly. I skip while singing playground songs. Occasionally, I smack the rope hard against my legs so I have to start again. I pause, rub my stinging shins, tangle myself in the rope, anything to stall and catch my breath.
"Ropes away. Do your push-ups, then stretch."
I splay out on the mat like the coyote after the road runner tricked him into falling down the deep ravine while being hit by TNT.
Despite the sweat in my eyes, I see the light. Not the fluorescent light above me, but the "other" light. Not the "go into the light" light, but the "I have an epiphany" light.
I no longer pray for the demise of my class. I pray for the stamina to survive one more.
Personal Growth 101: A+
". . . Oh sheeeiiiitttt," are the words that come to my lips after five minutes into the class. Literally. Three hundred seconds elapse when regrets start to erupt from my pounding heart. Another 10 minutes crawl by and I'm on my 50th boxing combination. "Jab, jab, cross, hook to the ribs, hook to the head, roundhouse left, roundhouse right." I look pleadingly at my 70 pound leather punching dummy. "Please, punch me out," I whisper. I swear I hear him say, "Who's the dummy now, Bitch?"
"I know you're a little winded," bellows the instructor. "So lay down with your head an arms-length away from the medicine ball I positioned behind you." All I comprehend is, "lay down." The next instructions sound like Charlie Brown's teacher. "Blah, blah . . blah. Blah, 15 crunches, blah." My fellow captors respond. They are lifting this ten pound ball into the air, as they simultaneously bring their feet up toward the ball to meet high above the belly. After I do three of these torturous maneuvers, I steal a look at the instructor. She has transformed into Medusa. Her beautiful hair extensions have become serpents. The precious "Michael Strahan" gap between her teeth now appear wide enough to suck me through, like a cobra ingesting its prey. She appears preoccupied arranging the boxing gloves on the hooks, so I attempt to lessen my load. I shove the ball away with my remaining strength. It travels four inches.
"Tam-A-Lam-A-Ding-Dong, what are you doing?" Oh yeah, that was her nick name for me back in 2010.
"I thought I saw a spider. So I was killing it."
"By rolling the medicine ball over it? You can stay afterwards to wipe down all the balls. Put your balls away and grab a jump rope."
I eye the jump rope and the metal pipes above. This escape route seems a little severe, but still . . .
"Jump til I say stop."
I tentatively raise my hand to forestall the activity by a few seconds. "What if my heart stops before you say stop?"
"No need for a class clown. Let's jump."
Last time I checked Webster's, that word means "let us,"as in "let us all jump." Funny, though, she just stands there with her ridged abs and concrete biceps determining if we are sweating enough. On second thought, I don't want to witness her jumping. I jump quickly. I jump slowly. I skip while singing playground songs. Occasionally, I smack the rope hard against my legs so I have to start again. I pause, rub my stinging shins, tangle myself in the rope, anything to stall and catch my breath.
"Ropes away. Do your push-ups, then stretch."
I splay out on the mat like the coyote after the road runner tricked him into falling down the deep ravine while being hit by TNT.
Despite the sweat in my eyes, I see the light. Not the fluorescent light above me, but the "other" light. Not the "go into the light" light, but the "I have an epiphany" light.
I no longer pray for the demise of my class. I pray for the stamina to survive one more.
Personal Growth 101: A+
Thursday, October 3, 2013
My Philosophy: DO IT WHILE I CAN
I'm dusting off my Philosophy for Life and retooling it for present day. My Philosophy is DO IT WHILE I CAN (DIWIC). I did have other philosophies, but this one has the best acronym. Perhaps it'll catch on and I can trademark it! I believe it should be right next to the Golden Rule. The Rule carries a little more weight, but hear me out why DIWIC should be a close second.
I'm only going to say this once. I am getting older. My image in the mirror is a little less appealing. The comments on the street, less frequent. I have a pair of blue jeans that require pliers to get the zipper up and I avoid selfies. (Perhaps we all should.)
I've always had this Philosophy/Mission Statement--DIWIC. But because of this revelation about the "age" thing, I have re-evaluated it and put it back into high gear. DIWIC begs the question: What is IT? IT is clearly going to be different for everyone and IT changes as I change and age.
I would say from age 15-35, IT was synonymous with "have a good time." So I did. I partied in high school. Partied in college. Partied with co-workers and strangers. Don't worry. I did more than just drink away those years. I travelled. I met Italian men in the shadow of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I gambled in Macau and drank Mekong whiskey in northern Thailand. I moved to NY, to Denver, back to NY. I worked. I skied, I hiked. Got my heart broken, broke some hearts, etc., etc. I tried to be a good daughter, sister, and wife.
My first child was born when I was 37. That's about the time the disco ball quit spinning. Odd coincidence. Motherhood was upon me. My DIWIC Philosophy changed. I would say it was akin to shifting a 1960 Karmann Ghia without using the clutch. Tricky, noisy, scary, crazy fun, yet possible. My IT was about becoming a good mother now. That involves a few things I won't go into it here. Truth be revealed, I'm not sure what it involves. That knowledge will be bestowed upon me the day my last child graduates. That's how life works.
Shifting DIWIC into high gear has just made me a little more deliberate in my choices. One glass of wine(as opposed to the bottle) so I can run the next day. No sausage before yoga. Downward Facing Dog, pig in my gut, and a burp trying to surface is not to be envied. Breaking myths. It's okay to bike ride in the rain. We don't melt, despite our collective knowledge from "The Wizard of Oz." Do throw in a few Ted Talks and crossword puzzles for brain exercise.
So, DIWIC. My co-worker's husband used to be a runner. He's had a stroke and is now handicapped. My mother-in-law and I rode bikes a couple years ago. Her balance was a little wobbly. My Dad died eighteen months ago.
So, DO IT WHILE YOU CAN.
I'm only going to say this once. I am getting older. My image in the mirror is a little less appealing. The comments on the street, less frequent. I have a pair of blue jeans that require pliers to get the zipper up and I avoid selfies. (Perhaps we all should.)
I've always had this Philosophy/Mission Statement--DIWIC. But because of this revelation about the "age" thing, I have re-evaluated it and put it back into high gear. DIWIC begs the question: What is IT? IT is clearly going to be different for everyone and IT changes as I change and age.
I would say from age 15-35, IT was synonymous with "have a good time." So I did. I partied in high school. Partied in college. Partied with co-workers and strangers. Don't worry. I did more than just drink away those years. I travelled. I met Italian men in the shadow of the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I gambled in Macau and drank Mekong whiskey in northern Thailand. I moved to NY, to Denver, back to NY. I worked. I skied, I hiked. Got my heart broken, broke some hearts, etc., etc. I tried to be a good daughter, sister, and wife.
My first child was born when I was 37. That's about the time the disco ball quit spinning. Odd coincidence. Motherhood was upon me. My DIWIC Philosophy changed. I would say it was akin to shifting a 1960 Karmann Ghia without using the clutch. Tricky, noisy, scary, crazy fun, yet possible. My IT was about becoming a good mother now. That involves a few things I won't go into it here. Truth be revealed, I'm not sure what it involves. That knowledge will be bestowed upon me the day my last child graduates. That's how life works.
Shifting DIWIC into high gear has just made me a little more deliberate in my choices. One glass of wine(as opposed to the bottle) so I can run the next day. No sausage before yoga. Downward Facing Dog, pig in my gut, and a burp trying to surface is not to be envied. Breaking myths. It's okay to bike ride in the rain. We don't melt, despite our collective knowledge from "The Wizard of Oz." Do throw in a few Ted Talks and crossword puzzles for brain exercise.
So, DIWIC. My co-worker's husband used to be a runner. He's had a stroke and is now handicapped. My mother-in-law and I rode bikes a couple years ago. Her balance was a little wobbly. My Dad died eighteen months ago.
So, DO IT WHILE YOU CAN.
Monday, April 15, 2013
Is Laziness Beneficial? An Unofficial Study
LAZINESS certainly has a negative connotation. I was fighting an afternoon nap recently when the word lazy meandered its way across my closed eyelids. I do the typical "housewife/mother stuff." Cook, clean, yell, laundry, volunteer, homework, yell, garden, do my "real" job (flight attendant), ponder a second career, yell, food shop, bra and boxer shop. Shop, in general.
Shopping. Actually this is where my curiosity about laziness takes root. Do I have "shades of laziness" in me or am I just thrifty?
Neither adjective seems flattering. As a teenager, I loved clothes shopping-for myself of course- with my parent's money. Now it is my bank account getting depleted and the clothes aren't generally going into my coffers! Now I look at a shirt and think, "I could buy 10 boxes of honey nut cheerios and two pounds of ground beef!"
For a while now, I've been attending yoga classes 2-3 times a week. It's a different instructor every day and different students also. So it's not a big deal to wear the same shirt and pants to every class, just boring and stinky. It would be nice to own more than one outfit, but I just can't get excited about yoga attire shopping. Generally, I love buying crap I don't really need. Don't we all?
Hence my pondering state. I'm tired of washing out my yoga outfit in the shower. (I don't have a washer in my apartment.) Pretty soon, I may have all my dirty clothes in the tub with me! The real question is why don't I just go shopping? I need to investigate this further!
Lululemon on Broadway and 75th Street rules for yoga clothes. The yummy spring colors pull me inside. In minutes (okay, seconds) I spot the perfect yoga shirt and matching lycra pants. Simultaneously, my lazy and thrifty side kick in. Mmm, $58 for a shirt --a yoga shirt, not just any shirt-- and $78 for pants. My thrifty side thinks about my bank account and how this isn't a good month to be doing this type of shopping. My lazy side gazes down at what I'm wearing. On my feet, Doc Martens: A pain to unlace and relace. Tight blue jeans: Have to suck in my gut to get the zipper back up. Sweater with a lycra camisole underneath and a three-hook bra: Need I say more? Plus my winter coat. Oh my gawd! I am too lazy to strip, don, restrip, and don again. Out the store I go, seemingly $136 (plus tax) richer.
As I walk home, I contemplate: What's THE reason why I walked out of that store pantless?
Just last month, I whipped out my credit card for a kick-ass Stella McCartney motorcycle jacket. I knew I'd be sitting on my sofa eating ramen noodles for a month. But I look damn good slurping those 59 cent noodles day after day wearing my Stella.
Perhaps, I need both thrifty and lazy to work hand in hand so my wardrobe isn't stuffed full of Calvin and Donna and Stella. And in turn, my stomach isn't stuffed full of ramen noodles!
After conducting my unofficial study to the question, "Is laziness beneficial?" my official answer is yes . . .well, sometimes.
Shopping. Actually this is where my curiosity about laziness takes root. Do I have "shades of laziness" in me or am I just thrifty?
Neither adjective seems flattering. As a teenager, I loved clothes shopping-for myself of course- with my parent's money. Now it is my bank account getting depleted and the clothes aren't generally going into my coffers! Now I look at a shirt and think, "I could buy 10 boxes of honey nut cheerios and two pounds of ground beef!"
For a while now, I've been attending yoga classes 2-3 times a week. It's a different instructor every day and different students also. So it's not a big deal to wear the same shirt and pants to every class, just boring and stinky. It would be nice to own more than one outfit, but I just can't get excited about yoga attire shopping. Generally, I love buying crap I don't really need. Don't we all?
Hence my pondering state. I'm tired of washing out my yoga outfit in the shower. (I don't have a washer in my apartment.) Pretty soon, I may have all my dirty clothes in the tub with me! The real question is why don't I just go shopping? I need to investigate this further!
Lululemon on Broadway and 75th Street rules for yoga clothes. The yummy spring colors pull me inside. In minutes (okay, seconds) I spot the perfect yoga shirt and matching lycra pants. Simultaneously, my lazy and thrifty side kick in. Mmm, $58 for a shirt --a yoga shirt, not just any shirt-- and $78 for pants. My thrifty side thinks about my bank account and how this isn't a good month to be doing this type of shopping. My lazy side gazes down at what I'm wearing. On my feet, Doc Martens: A pain to unlace and relace. Tight blue jeans: Have to suck in my gut to get the zipper back up. Sweater with a lycra camisole underneath and a three-hook bra: Need I say more? Plus my winter coat. Oh my gawd! I am too lazy to strip, don, restrip, and don again. Out the store I go, seemingly $136 (plus tax) richer.
As I walk home, I contemplate: What's THE reason why I walked out of that store pantless?
Just last month, I whipped out my credit card for a kick-ass Stella McCartney motorcycle jacket. I knew I'd be sitting on my sofa eating ramen noodles for a month. But I look damn good slurping those 59 cent noodles day after day wearing my Stella.
Perhaps, I need both thrifty and lazy to work hand in hand so my wardrobe isn't stuffed full of Calvin and Donna and Stella. And in turn, my stomach isn't stuffed full of ramen noodles!
After conducting my unofficial study to the question, "Is laziness beneficial?" my official answer is yes . . .well, sometimes.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Memory Block
You don't have to be a writer to have heard of writer's block. I suffer from this malady 98% of the time. Hence my quarterly blog as opposed to my original plan of weekly. Who did I think I was--J.K. Rowling?? Anyway, I have recently diagnosed myself with memory block as well. I've defined this condition as follows:
One's inability to recall what one has read over the years, be it for leisure or educational purposes.
A year ago I read the book "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel. I enjoyed it, but wasn't moved enough to rave to strangers about it on the subway (see blog entry: Kindles, Nooks and Old-fashioned Books, 4/28/11). When the book was made into a movie, I didn't plan on seeing it. Regardless, my husband and I ended up paying $35 to see the 3D version. Remember, NYC prices.
It was worth it! The scenery was breathtaking. It was thought-provoking and educational. Who knew the French had been in India? The French were in Vietnam and Northern Africa, but India? Yes, the French had been in India. I confirmed it with Wikipedia.
After the movie, my husband asked, "Was the book better than the movie?"
I opened my mouth to reply. And then I shut it. I opened it. I shut it. I opened it and replied. "I have no idea."
"I thought you read the book," he retorted.
"I did," I agonized. "But I barely remember it. I recall the symbolism at the end and that's it."
"Oh well," he replied nonchalantly. "Let's go eat."
OH WELL. LET'S GO EAT!?!?!? Is he kidding? I am on the verge of a minor crisis here! Why am I reading if I don't retain? Am I reading too many novels? Am I not reading enough? Should I read only non-fiction? Short stories? Should I reread what I just read?
I do not know! I do know that recently I took a botany class. I read and outlined ten chapters of the text. One day, the teacher asked a question and no one replied. Then he asked, "Did anyone read the chapter?"
Finally! A question I could answer. "Yes, I did." I piped up. "But I guess I didn't retain much . . .or any."
I somewhat understand not retaining textbook information, but I read novels for enjoyment. Shouldn't I remember the plot, characters, and/or setting for more than a few days or weeks? If it's truly an exceptional book--Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer (no accounting for taste is there--tee hee) everything is etched in my mind about Scarlett, Ishvar, and Edward.
But, I think I should be able to recall pretty good books, as well. Five years ago I read A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth, every 1,488 pages. I remember it takes place in India. I remember lots of characters celebrating lots of holidays. I remember the plot was akin to a Telemundo telenovela. I spent a month reading that book. And that's what I recall--it was reminescent of a Spanish soap opera!
I'm not alone in this condition. A friend said he buys books more than once. However, he blames the marketing department. They cleverly switch covers when the paperbacks are released. Not until he's into the second or third chapter, that a light bulb slowly illuminates.
Another friend started a list of her reading history in 2000. Unfortunately, she lost it. Since 2010, she now uses her computer with a grading system and a personal note about her thoughts of the book.
A book that I hate has stayed with me--Eat, Pray, Love, a memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert. Thanks to her, I have less interest in visiting India, or returning to Italy and Bali. I fear she'll be revisiting these countries while she indulgently writes her third memoir and I'll encounter her!
I'm starting to think my experience with books are like my friendships. The really great ones, I'll remember and cherish forever. While others, are appropriate for the time. They serve their purpose, yet don't have staying power. And even books and friends that drive me crazy, have a place in my memory.
Mmm, well, maybe my condition isn't so bad after all. My husband and I can go have dinner now.
One's inability to recall what one has read over the years, be it for leisure or educational purposes.
A year ago I read the book "Life of Pi" by Yann Martel. I enjoyed it, but wasn't moved enough to rave to strangers about it on the subway (see blog entry: Kindles, Nooks and Old-fashioned Books, 4/28/11). When the book was made into a movie, I didn't plan on seeing it. Regardless, my husband and I ended up paying $35 to see the 3D version. Remember, NYC prices.
It was worth it! The scenery was breathtaking. It was thought-provoking and educational. Who knew the French had been in India? The French were in Vietnam and Northern Africa, but India? Yes, the French had been in India. I confirmed it with Wikipedia.
After the movie, my husband asked, "Was the book better than the movie?"
I opened my mouth to reply. And then I shut it. I opened it. I shut it. I opened it and replied. "I have no idea."
"I thought you read the book," he retorted.
"I did," I agonized. "But I barely remember it. I recall the symbolism at the end and that's it."
"Oh well," he replied nonchalantly. "Let's go eat."
OH WELL. LET'S GO EAT!?!?!? Is he kidding? I am on the verge of a minor crisis here! Why am I reading if I don't retain? Am I reading too many novels? Am I not reading enough? Should I read only non-fiction? Short stories? Should I reread what I just read?
I do not know! I do know that recently I took a botany class. I read and outlined ten chapters of the text. One day, the teacher asked a question and no one replied. Then he asked, "Did anyone read the chapter?"
Finally! A question I could answer. "Yes, I did." I piped up. "But I guess I didn't retain much . . .or any."
I somewhat understand not retaining textbook information, but I read novels for enjoyment. Shouldn't I remember the plot, characters, and/or setting for more than a few days or weeks? If it's truly an exceptional book--Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell, A Fine Balance by Rohinton Mistry, Twilight Series by Stephenie Meyer (no accounting for taste is there--tee hee) everything is etched in my mind about Scarlett, Ishvar, and Edward.
But, I think I should be able to recall pretty good books, as well. Five years ago I read A Suitable Boy, by Vikram Seth, every 1,488 pages. I remember it takes place in India. I remember lots of characters celebrating lots of holidays. I remember the plot was akin to a Telemundo telenovela. I spent a month reading that book. And that's what I recall--it was reminescent of a Spanish soap opera!
I'm not alone in this condition. A friend said he buys books more than once. However, he blames the marketing department. They cleverly switch covers when the paperbacks are released. Not until he's into the second or third chapter, that a light bulb slowly illuminates.
Another friend started a list of her reading history in 2000. Unfortunately, she lost it. Since 2010, she now uses her computer with a grading system and a personal note about her thoughts of the book.
A book that I hate has stayed with me--Eat, Pray, Love, a memoir by Elizabeth Gilbert. Thanks to her, I have less interest in visiting India, or returning to Italy and Bali. I fear she'll be revisiting these countries while she indulgently writes her third memoir and I'll encounter her!
I'm starting to think my experience with books are like my friendships. The really great ones, I'll remember and cherish forever. While others, are appropriate for the time. They serve their purpose, yet don't have staying power. And even books and friends that drive me crazy, have a place in my memory.
Mmm, well, maybe my condition isn't so bad after all. My husband and I can go have dinner now.
Tuesday, December 11, 2012
"My Daily Run"
I don't love my daily run. Well, actually, it's more of a jog. But "run" just seems more impressive and energetic. And "daily" has the appearance of discipline and fortitude. So when I write "my daily run" just know I'm truly misleading you. However, I have come to discover my daily run mirrors my daily life. Some parts of it are great, some are indifferent, and other parts simply suck.
I get up at 6:45 am and wake up 30 minutes later. No. Not a typo. If you can't relate, God bless you. You're one in a million!
I'm sauting salami and onions for my son's omelette before my right eye is entirely open. The gentle, splatter of hot olive oil on my hand is a rude attempt at a wake-up call, just as a 35-degree morning is for my daily run.
Despite the sizzling oil attack, I continue in a blur. "Lizzy," I yell at my daughter. "Get up." I make her breakfast. Yell some more. I kiss my husband good-bye. Yell again. I make her lunch for school as I yell. My son brushes his teeth (he says), puts in his contacts, and leaves. "Bye Mom. Bye Liz." I manuver Lizzy into an upright position and hope for the best. She manages to leave at some point.
First thought: An empty, quiet home. Yahoo! Second thought: Did I screw up my work schedule? Was I suppose to be at work two hours ago? Third thought: Running clothes or jeans? Guilt attacks me as a reach for my jeans. To kill it, I grab the spandex and snap it on. I have three questions to answer before I run.
1. Do I have to move my car to avoid a ticket? Oh lord, what street am I parked on? If I take the car to the garage, I run from 70th street to the Intrepid Museum docked on the Hudson at 43rd street and back home.
2. Do I have a coffee date? If so, I run up Riverside Park along the Hudson to meet my girlfriend on 110th street at our favorite Hungarian pastry shop. After coffee, I then walk, run, or subway home. Yes, I cheat on those coffee date days and I'm not ashamed of it!
3. Why didn't I schedule a coffee date? On these days, I'm out the apartment, up around the Central Park Resevoir and back. After a forty-five second hamstring stretch, I'm out the door.
Just like the first several minutes of my morning are spotty, the first few blocks of my run are the most questionable. "You're doing this shit again?" my Brain says to my Body. "Didn't we just do this yesterday or was it last week? You know, if you really did this exercise crap every day, it would be easier on both of us." The dialogue slows down as I enter the park on 81st street. I start counting dogs not on their leash. I listen for birds. I see an 80-year-old jogger and try to pass. The first incline assaults me. It's akin to getting Lizzy erect in the morning. "I can do this. I can do this," I chant. If I can get Lizzy up, I can get up this hill. I manage to get to the resevoir. Now I just have to make it around and then back home--without stopping--preferably.
But I've learned my Brain can take over and drown out my previous cheerleading chant with a catchy melody from the '60's.
Slow down, you're movin' too fast,
You've got to make the mornin' last,
Just a-kickin' down the cobblestones,
Lookin' for fun, feelin' groovy.
Ba, da, da, da, da feelin' groovy!
(thank you Paul Simon for that respite)
I pretty much come to a leisurely stroll in order to halt the "feelin' groovy" repeating itself over and over in my head like a jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk. Luckily, Paul only serenades me once every few months, so I manage my run at a somewhat even pace. I actually run on the bridle path around the resevoir because it's wider than the path by the water and is surrounded by trees casting shadows. When running on those balmy 90-degree days, I tell myself, "Run for gawd sakes. Get to the shade." Obviously in the winter, I berate myself to get to the next patch of sun, an illusion of warmth. I pick out runners I don't like and try to pass them. I don't like safety orange running outfits, older people that are faster than me, private school kids during gym class. "Just because you're richer than me, doesn't mean you're faster than me!" (Unfortunately, they are richer and faster 90% of the time.) When I spot the private school girls, I feel like I'm at Bloomingdales for my bi-yearly trek to that Institution of Higher Spending. I get off on the second floor, while the more coiffed, toned women continue up the escalator to the designer floor, leaving me in the wake of their expensive, flowerly perfume. These are their daughters gliding by me, effortlessly, up the path.
In the spring, my path becomes a pink, soft carpet of fallen petals from blossoming cherry trees. In the fall, I feel like God has allowed me a little peek at Heaven. As I run by the baseball fields, I smell freshly cut grass that make me feel like a 10-year-old again. I see more breeds of dogs on my daily run than a vet sees in a week.
Like my life outside of spandex and running shoes, I get the good, bad, and indifferent. I love being home when the kids open that door at 4 pm. They want to share their day and I long to hear it. As the evening progresses, my husband comes home. Hopefully, to be greeted with a kiss. I make dinner, lie to my daughter about the importance of polynomials in one's life, promise my son his eyeballs won't pop out if he reads more than four pages at a time, talk to India about my computer, and wonder if I'm scheduled to work the next day. I think back to my daily run at the 2.75 mile mark (but who's counting). The hill exiting the park at Central Park West and 77nd street is a bitch. Why must it be at the end of my run? Well, I attack it because it's gotta be done if I want to get home and get on with my day. Just like I gotta weed through the dirty dishes, homework, and teen-age squabbles in order to get to bed before midnight.
"Mom," Lizzy yells, from her tiny loft bedroom. "Bake some cookies. I have a bake sale tomorrow. Please."
And so my day tumbles into evening that slides into night and continues to unfold.
I get up at 6:45 am and wake up 30 minutes later. No. Not a typo. If you can't relate, God bless you. You're one in a million!
I'm sauting salami and onions for my son's omelette before my right eye is entirely open. The gentle, splatter of hot olive oil on my hand is a rude attempt at a wake-up call, just as a 35-degree morning is for my daily run.
Despite the sizzling oil attack, I continue in a blur. "Lizzy," I yell at my daughter. "Get up." I make her breakfast. Yell some more. I kiss my husband good-bye. Yell again. I make her lunch for school as I yell. My son brushes his teeth (he says), puts in his contacts, and leaves. "Bye Mom. Bye Liz." I manuver Lizzy into an upright position and hope for the best. She manages to leave at some point.
First thought: An empty, quiet home. Yahoo! Second thought: Did I screw up my work schedule? Was I suppose to be at work two hours ago? Third thought: Running clothes or jeans? Guilt attacks me as a reach for my jeans. To kill it, I grab the spandex and snap it on. I have three questions to answer before I run.
1. Do I have to move my car to avoid a ticket? Oh lord, what street am I parked on? If I take the car to the garage, I run from 70th street to the Intrepid Museum docked on the Hudson at 43rd street and back home.
2. Do I have a coffee date? If so, I run up Riverside Park along the Hudson to meet my girlfriend on 110th street at our favorite Hungarian pastry shop. After coffee, I then walk, run, or subway home. Yes, I cheat on those coffee date days and I'm not ashamed of it!
3. Why didn't I schedule a coffee date? On these days, I'm out the apartment, up around the Central Park Resevoir and back. After a forty-five second hamstring stretch, I'm out the door.
Just like the first several minutes of my morning are spotty, the first few blocks of my run are the most questionable. "You're doing this shit again?" my Brain says to my Body. "Didn't we just do this yesterday or was it last week? You know, if you really did this exercise crap every day, it would be easier on both of us." The dialogue slows down as I enter the park on 81st street. I start counting dogs not on their leash. I listen for birds. I see an 80-year-old jogger and try to pass. The first incline assaults me. It's akin to getting Lizzy erect in the morning. "I can do this. I can do this," I chant. If I can get Lizzy up, I can get up this hill. I manage to get to the resevoir. Now I just have to make it around and then back home--without stopping--preferably.
But I've learned my Brain can take over and drown out my previous cheerleading chant with a catchy melody from the '60's.
Slow down, you're movin' too fast,
You've got to make the mornin' last,
Just a-kickin' down the cobblestones,
Lookin' for fun, feelin' groovy.
Ba, da, da, da, da feelin' groovy!
(thank you Paul Simon for that respite)
I pretty much come to a leisurely stroll in order to halt the "feelin' groovy" repeating itself over and over in my head like a jackhammer tearing up the sidewalk. Luckily, Paul only serenades me once every few months, so I manage my run at a somewhat even pace. I actually run on the bridle path around the resevoir because it's wider than the path by the water and is surrounded by trees casting shadows. When running on those balmy 90-degree days, I tell myself, "Run for gawd sakes. Get to the shade." Obviously in the winter, I berate myself to get to the next patch of sun, an illusion of warmth. I pick out runners I don't like and try to pass them. I don't like safety orange running outfits, older people that are faster than me, private school kids during gym class. "Just because you're richer than me, doesn't mean you're faster than me!" (Unfortunately, they are richer and faster 90% of the time.) When I spot the private school girls, I feel like I'm at Bloomingdales for my bi-yearly trek to that Institution of Higher Spending. I get off on the second floor, while the more coiffed, toned women continue up the escalator to the designer floor, leaving me in the wake of their expensive, flowerly perfume. These are their daughters gliding by me, effortlessly, up the path.
In the spring, my path becomes a pink, soft carpet of fallen petals from blossoming cherry trees. In the fall, I feel like God has allowed me a little peek at Heaven. As I run by the baseball fields, I smell freshly cut grass that make me feel like a 10-year-old again. I see more breeds of dogs on my daily run than a vet sees in a week.
Like my life outside of spandex and running shoes, I get the good, bad, and indifferent. I love being home when the kids open that door at 4 pm. They want to share their day and I long to hear it. As the evening progresses, my husband comes home. Hopefully, to be greeted with a kiss. I make dinner, lie to my daughter about the importance of polynomials in one's life, promise my son his eyeballs won't pop out if he reads more than four pages at a time, talk to India about my computer, and wonder if I'm scheduled to work the next day. I think back to my daily run at the 2.75 mile mark (but who's counting). The hill exiting the park at Central Park West and 77nd street is a bitch. Why must it be at the end of my run? Well, I attack it because it's gotta be done if I want to get home and get on with my day. Just like I gotta weed through the dirty dishes, homework, and teen-age squabbles in order to get to bed before midnight.
"Mom," Lizzy yells, from her tiny loft bedroom. "Bake some cookies. I have a bake sale tomorrow. Please."
And so my day tumbles into evening that slides into night and continues to unfold.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)